


Call me Ishmael

by Barcardivodka



Series: Illya's Harem [3]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Friendship, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-15
Updated: 2015-12-15
Packaged: 2018-05-06 22:31:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5433185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Barcardivodka/pseuds/Barcardivodka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Illya receives some help with his English</p>
            </blockquote>





	Call me Ishmael

**Author's Note:**

> As always, with many thanks to my beta, Jay
> 
>  
> 
> Part of a series of stories 'Illya's Harem'

 

 

_Call me Ish … mael. Some years ago— never mind how long … pre …cisely— having little or no money in … my purse, and nothing … particular to … interest me on shore, I thought … I would sail about a little and see the … watery part … of the world. It … is a … way I have of driving off the sp … leen and reg …u …lating the cir …cu …lation. Whenever I find myself growing grim … about the mouth; whenever it is … a damp, drizzly … November in my soul; whenever I find myself in … vol … untarily pausing before coffin warehouses …_

 

Betty Hadland looked up from her knitting when Illya fell silent. Her young Russian neighbour had only just picked up her copy of Moby Dick, reading it aloud in an exercise she had set to improve his English. The words had been spoken falteringly and slowly. A look of frustration marred Illya’s features. Betty was just about to reassure him when the book was slapped onto the table with such force that it rattled Betty’s teacup in its saucer.

“Is too hard,” he growled out as he stood up and stomped past the coffee table. Betty thought he was going to storm out of her flat, but he turned back round when he reached the living room door and paced back to the coffee table, his eyes flicking to the book, only to turn and pace back to the door.

With one eye on the agitated man, Betty calmly finished off the row of knitting and then placed the needles into the yarn of wool nestled at her side.

“Illya, come and sit down,” she patted the arm of the sofa as she smiled encouragingly.

“No.” he replied as he came to a stop a foot or so away from her armchair. “Is no good. I am too stupid to learn. Is too hard.” He turned and continued his pacing, the palm of his right hand rubbing his forehead in agitation.

“Illya, please come and sit down. You’re starting to make me feel quite dizzy.” Betty was eighty-six years old and for fifty of those years she had been a teacher. She had taught the bright and the troubled with equal dedication. She had learned long ago that not all children were gifted academically. Some were more practically inclined. The trick was to find their talent before society and others broke their self-confidence. As hard as she had tried, Betty had lost countless of children to the drudgery of a life in service, or to factory assembly lines and the world had lost a wealth of potential, simply because a child didn’t like to read the classics, or grasp the idea of multiplying fractions.

However, Illya, no matter what he thought of himself, was far from stupid. This was a man who spoke at least four languages fluently - they were just the ones Betty had overheard him speak. He could fix anything electrical and from what Napoleon and Gaby had let slip, Illya was considered a communications expert in the ‘firm’ that they worked at. So it stood to reason that he was well versed in modern technology.

Illya returned to stand by the coffee table after a few more circuits of her small living room and glared down at her. Betty raised an eyebrow as she looked up at him, intimidated by neither his glare or looming height. With a weary sigh Illya capitulated and moved to sit stiffly on the sofa.

“Is no good,” he muttered quietly.

“I’ll be the judge of that,” Betty replied, “not you. You asked for my help Illya, to improve your English. I can and I will help you speak more fluently. However, you have to give both of us more than five minutes into our first lesson before you declare the whole endeavour a disaster.”

With his head bowed, Illya looked at her from under his lashes, his expression a picture of unhappiness.

“Pass me my writing pad and pen, please.” Betty pointed to the furthest end of the coffee table. Illya easily reached for them and then held out the items to her. “No, they’re for you. I want you to write out the first paragraph in the book.” Illya shoulders slumped at that, but he obediently uncapped the fountain pen and flipped over to a new page in the writing pad. When he opened the book and held it open in one large hand on the coffee table, Betty added, “in Russian.”

He gave her a bewildered look.

“In Russian,” Betty repeated with a sharp tap on the coffee table. Illya hunched himself over the table to complete the task. Once Illya had finished, Betty asked him to write it again, in German, then in French and again in Polish.

Those were the languages Betty had heard him speak with fluid confidence, she’d also just confirmed that he could write fluently in all four languages as well. Although, out of those languages Betty only spoke French, so Illya could have written complete nonsense in the others. But she knew he hadn’t. It would have served his self-critical cause better if he had denied being able to read and write in any of the tasked languages.

When he had finished, Illya looked at her for a moment, before picking up the writing pad and offering it to her. Betty took it with a reassuring smile and flipped through the pages. Illya’s handwriting was neat and tidy and clearly legible. There were no smudges or blotches from using the fountain pen and each line was almost perfectly straight. She looked over at Illya who was watching her rather worriedly.

“This is very good, Illya,” she praised. “Your handwriting is extremely neat.” Illya blushed at her words. She would have found it endearing, but it pulled at her heart that Illya would be embarrassed at such simple approval. She placed the writing pad on the coffee table.

“Illya, your spoken English is good enough for you to clearly be understood. With daily practice you will only improve.”

“I speak English every day, for months,” Illya protested. “Still the same.”

“That’s because it’s become a habit to speak in the manner that you do. Reading aloud in English, be it from a book or a newspaper, will help you to form sentences correctly.” Illya nodded at her words as he picked up the book and looked down at it, turning it over and over in his hands. “With your level of intelligence, it won’t take very long to speak more fluently at all.” She smiled as his head shot up to stare at her in astonishment.

“But…”

“Illya, you translated a paragraph of English text into four different languages, in minutes. You obviously have a very thorough knowledge of English, as well as the other languages.  It’s all down to pronunciation and sentence structure now. “

“Oh.”

“I want you to read aloud for at least one hour every day. Write down any words you have difficulty with, either with pronunciation or context and we’ll go through them when you have the time to pop in. How does that sound?”

Illya nodded. “Is quiet at work. I could come read to you in evenings?” He asked almost shyly.

“It’s quiet at work. I could come and read to you in the evenings?” Betty emphasised the missing words.

“It’s quiet at work. I could come and read to you in the evenings?” Illya repeated dutifully. He smiled as Betty patted his hand.

“That sounds like a very good idea. You can join me for dinner. I do so dislike eating alone,” Betty added quickly as Illya started to protest.

“Ok. But I bring … but I will bring the groceries.” Betty nodded her agreement. She had already won a reasonably easy victory, there was no point pushing it any further.

“Let’s try a couple of pages,” Betty waggled a finger at the book. “Then we’ll have some more tea.”  

Illya opened the book, took a breath and started to read.

 

_“Call me Ishmael.”_


End file.
